


Hiding in Plain Sight

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual Female Character, Canon-Typical Lounging and Thinking, Coming Out, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Friends to Lovers, Genderbending, Genderswap, Lesbian Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 21:21:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14410803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: Sherlock wouldn’t call herself jealous, not exactly. But it did prickle a bit when Joan met someone and immediately began searching for clues that she wasn’t straight. Sherlock could see her subtly analyzing their hair, clothes, fingernails, shoes. Especially the shoes.Sherlock wondered why Joan hadn’t noticed her, hiding in plain sight. But then again, Sherlock hadn’t even noticed herself.





	Hiding in Plain Sight

Sherlock woke up shivering.

At least, that’s what she thought it was at first – the cold. She lay on her stomach in bed, her breasts aching. Turning over, her arm grazed her nipples – it _hurt._

 _That’s not quite right_ , she thought. Joan’s face flashed through her mind. _Why_? Sherlock asked herself.

She pulled up the quilt that had bunched near the foot of the bed, wrapped herself up, and tried to fall back asleep.

 

Days later, Sherlock lay supine on the sofa, fingers tented under her chin. It was nearly three in the morning; Joan had gone to bed hours ago. Mrs. Hudson had puttered around the kitchen for about an hour longer, then retired. Sherlock missed the quiet noises of neighbors and flatmates. Only the occasional traffic outside distracted her.

And she did need distracting. It wouldn’t be quite fair to call it a crisis, but she was experiencing something unexpected. Something that hadn’t happened in quite a long time, and never quite like this.

Just a few hours ago, Sherlock had woken up from a dream where she was holding hands with Joan Watson.

 

At university, Sherlock had forgone the experimentation that so many indulge in. In fact, she found herself consumed with a very singular focus: Victor Trevor.

He sat next to her during a chemistry lab their first semester, and Sherlock didn’t quite recover for the next two years. She found him endlessly interesting, studying his profile and cataloguing his laughter.

But Victor was more interested in a study partner than any other kind of partner, and Sherlock shuttered her emotional and physical responses.

It was simpler to focus on the chemistry, anyway.

She simply hadn’t felt interested again, in the decade and a half that followed.

 

Strangers and acquaintances always thought Sherlock was the streaking comet, and Joan the steady star. Overshadowed. _They couldn’t be more wrong,_ Sherlock thought.

 

They had lived together for eight months when Sherlock woke from the first dream, one where Joan’s body nestled into the curves of her own perfectly. _Odd,_ she told herself. But Sherlock was not married to the idea of heterosexuality. In fact, she found it rather dull; one could make an argument that her first homoerotic experience came with a sense of relief.

Then, worry: _how did I not know_?

 

“Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don’t clean the fridge,” Joan said menacingly one Tuesday. Sherlock looked up curiously.

“What would you do, really?” she asked. Joan let out a sharp exhale of frustration.

“You’re mad,” she said. “One of these days I’ll stop taking care of you!”

 

Joan was admirably optimistic about matters of the heart. She insisted on going out and meeting all sorts of women. Tall, short, blonde, brunette. It didn’t seem to matter.

Sherlock wouldn’t call herself _jealous_ , not exactly. But it did prickle a bit when Joan met someone and immediately began searching for clues that she wasn’t straight. Sherlock could see her subtly analyzing their hair, clothes, fingernails, shoes. Especially the shoes.

Sherlock wondered why Joan hadn’t noticed her, hiding in plain sight. But then again, Sherlock hadn’t even noticed herself.

 

Joan was back from another date. _Mediocre,_ Sherlock deduced from the slope of Joan’s shoulders.

She didn’t look up from the microscope.

As much as she hated these dull women, presumably they all knew something Sherlock didn’t: how to flirt with Joan Watson.

 

It was all fine until Joan invited Sherlock along one night. She’d seen this woman Claire a few times, but called her a friend. Sherlock decided Joan had deployed her as a scare tactic. Bring in the prickly friend, scare off the potential mate.

The woman peered at Sherlock curiously: “What are you, though?”

Sherlock laughed uneasily, but the question wouldn’t die, no matter how Joan glared at the dull one.

When Claire went to get another round – dark beer for Joan, gin and tonic for Sherlock, vodka soda for herself – Joan was visibly relieved.

“She’s quite… aggressive,” Sherlock said cautiously. Joan barked out a laugh.

“She doesn’t know we’re just friends,” she explained with a smile in the corner of her mouth.

Suddenly, Sherlock ached.

“Are we?” she asked impulsively. Joan licked her lips.

Then terrible Claire came back and put her hand on Joan’s shoulder, steadying herself as she passed a drink over to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stomped up the stairs, shaking out her rain jacket. Joan followed close behind.

“Goodnight,” Sherlock said tersely, immediately moving toward her bedroom.

“Wait a minute,” Joan said softly. “I’ll make tea.”

Sherlock stopped in her tracks, slowly turning over her shoulder. Something in Joan’s tone sounded almost tender.

A few minutes later, they sat across from each other at the table, pockmarked from Sherlock’s reckless experiments. Joan studied the curve of her mug handle with an artificial concentration.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. “I’m dealing with it.” Joan looked startled.

“Dealing with what?”

“My feelings for you,” Sherlock started shivering – emotional honesty always made her quiver in a very unpleasant way. “I assure you, they won’t interfere with our living arrangements.”

Joan did something very unexpected, just then: she smiled.

“I’ll be very disappointed if they don’t interfere,” she said softly. Sherlock just looked confused.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Joan was being too kind, Sherlock decided.

“I’m telling you now,” she said firmly. At that, Joan laughed. She reached one remarkable hand across the table and grasped Sherlock’s white-knuckled fingers, prying them slowly off of the mug.

“Come here,” Joan said. Sherlock didn’t move.

“Joan, I’m…” Sherlock just sat, wide-eyed.

“I know, it’s scary,” Joan said. Sherlock shook her head slightly.

“I’ve never been with anyone,” she explained quietly. “Not really.”

Joan smiled at her. _So much smiling_ , Sherlock thought.

Then she stood, still holding Sherlock’s hand, and pulled her up, too.

It didn’t matter that Sherlock towered over Joan; it was clear who held the power. Sherlock flexed the fingers that weren’t otherwise occupied, urging herself to stay calm.

But Joan didn’t kiss her. She led the way to the downstairs bedroom, Sherlock vibrating the whole way.

Finally, Joan sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, pulling her down too. They sat side by side in the dark.

“I’ve been in love with you for months,” Joan said quietly. Sherlock turned, shocked – she could just make out Joan’s silhouette in the darkness. “But I’m trying to be careful with you.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not necessary,” she decided, and then leaned forward and pressed her lips to Joan’s firmly.

 

They lay nose to nose as the sun began to rise on Baker Street.

“When did you know?” Joan asked.

“I started to dream about you,” Sherlock said. Joan quirked an eyebrow. “No, not like that,” Sherlock said. “Well, sometimes. But mostly, we did this.” Joan’s eyes went soft. She wrapped her arms tightly around Sherlock’s middle and buried her face in her neck.

“I dreamed about you, too,” she said, muffled by Sherlock’s hair and their shared pillow. “I dreamed about this.”

 

Sherlock smiled up at Joan as they sat in their respective chairs. They were closer now, scrunched together so Joan could slide her feet under Sherlock’s thighs. She loved Joan in those reading glasses. She loved Joan, full stop.

A buzz, and then Joan contorted and pulled her phone out of her back pocket. She made a face at the screen.  
“I’ll just delete Claire’s number, then,” she said with a grimace.

Joan caught Sherlock’s eye, and they both smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: This is semi-autobiographical! Guess which parts actually happened to me!


End file.
